The rotisserie thrums and hums along
turning and dripping and allowing
little thoughts of hunger to mature.
And, seeing the soon to be consumed
turned from a fresh pink to
a sappy umber,
one cannot debate the fire.

A more honorable way to go-
retorts a once funny uncle.
Wondering still, if the piglet had
been made to endure while still breathing
the licks and pokes of the woods exhalation,
would it remain good for the feast?

Or would the constant pain and
moreover, thought of these things,
cause its innards to spoil,
if out of spite if nothing more?

And with these thoughts Heavy
as he has before, before,
throws an asprin down the hatch
and waits for his time on the spit.